One Down, Eight to Go

Over the last twenty-four hours, both of our children have had near-death experiences. These back-to-back events have left us rattled, and more than tired.

This morning, while playing upstairs with Young Old, both of us still in our pajamas, I heard a loud crash downstairs and instantly knew that Frisco the Cat had been up to nothing good. Setting Young Old down to play with his wooden puzzles, I rushed downstairs and into a slaughterhouse. Blood was splattered all over the living room and trailed into the dining area, where Frisco crouched meekly, no doubt worried about my predictable anger over her nibbling of the plants (which, we later discovered, was indeed the case). Walking towards her, she took off running around the entire bottom floor of the house, tracking drops of blood everywhere. Finally cornering and then swooping her up, I noticed her front paw was cut open and still rapidly spurting blood. For a solid ten seconds which lasted an eternity, I paced back and forth, not knowing what to do, let alone how the hell to do it. In a flash I also realized that I didn't have a vehicle to take her to the veterinary hospital, and that our public transit system had a strict "no pets" policy. Grabbing my phone, I frantically dialed Mama K on her cell and at work. No luck, so I left a pair of shaky-sounding messages. Then Frisco the Cat started wailing, all thoughts of phone calls fled my mind, I grabbed a handful of paper towels and a roll of duct tape, held her squirming bloody paw steady, and quickly wrapped up a makeshift bandage. That's when Young Old began crying. Oh shit, what now? Throwing Frisco the Cat into the bathroom and closing the door so she couldn't escape and open her wound even further, I ran upstairs to find that Young Old had shit himself with such gusto that it had shot out of his diaper and up his back. Quickly changing his diaper, I then threw some clothes on, intending to call a taxi. Whether sensing my frantic desperation to get Frisco the Cat to the vet, or suddenly realizing it was time for some mammary fluids, Young Old burst into screaming tears. Running downstairs, I set the little man on the one blood-free patch of ground remaining, got a bottle warming up, then went to check on Frisco the Cat. Hunkered behind the toilet, shivering with pain, she struggled desperately as I stuffed her into her cat carrier and set her by the door, and all the while Young Old is screaming bloody murder in the background. Setting the cat by the door, I try calling Mama K once more...success!!! Upon hearing that it was an emergency, she told me she'd be home in fifteen minutes. Only now did I begin to breath. The bottle warmed, Young Old and I perched on the couch while I fed him. Midway through, I hear Frisco the Cat struggling mightily behind me in her cage, and look back in time to see her pulling back the zipper and escaping upstairs, sans bandage. Aw, fuck. Setting Young Old down once again (and now he's pissed ), I found Frisco the Cat wedged under our bed. Taking her back downstairs, I quickly re-bandaged her, put her back in her carrying case, and resumed feeding a very very angry Young Old. Like an angel, Mama K burst through the door, almost fainted from the amount of blood pooling everywhere, then quickly recovered and packed the car with the cat and the necessary baby gear, while I topped off the Young One. Once finished, we rapidly hit the road and made it to the vet in record time, with one now oddly quiet, very still cat. Things weren't looking good. When all was said and done, Frisco the Cat was put under, had three tendons reattached, received a load of stitches and came back to the house with her entire arm bandaged up. We still have no idea what she cut herself on, and have a long few days ahead of us, caring for the cat and attempting to keep her from chewing her bandage off.

Last night, though an event much less lengthy and complex, Young Old nevertheless sent fear scrambling into the depths of our loving hearts. During our dinners, Young Old often sits next to the table in his high chair and nibbles on toasted "o"s while eating a bite of pureed fruits and veggies every now and then, with nary a problem. This time, though, we had apparently fed him a spoonful of sweet potatoes too soon after he had popped a bit of his cereal in his mouth, and Young Old soon found himself choking for air, eyes bulging, face turning completely pale, eyes burning red with exertion, his tiny little hands waving above his head with confusion as he lost the ability to breath. With only a moment of hesitation brought on by the realization of how fragile our son's life is, we quickly undid his belt, sat him up straight, and scooped his mouth for blockage. Sure enough, in the crook of my index finger, amidst a swamp of orange goop, sat a too dry piece of cereal. Immediately, Young Old began to gasp air into this small lungs, eyes watering up with happiness, hands grasping for ours. It was a truly terrifying moment, and it wasn't until much later, once we had grasped the enormity of the occasion, that we finally shed our tears of fear and relief.

Love to you both, Young Old and Frisco the Cat. It means the world to us that you've chosen to grace us with your lives for at least another day. We'll do our best to cherish every one of them from here on out...